Old Squire had loaded a wagon with pumpkins, golden-brown russet apples, and splendid potatoes to take into town, a few miles off.  He promised to give the children a lift as far as the forks of the road.  Roberta coaxed Aunt Judy to fix her a nice lunch.  They wanted to gather wild grapes and nuts in the woods and have a tea-party besides.  Aunt Judy fried her some spiced apple turnovers, made beaten biscuits, crisp and brown, split them while they were hot, buttered them, and put thin slices of pink ham between.  Then she got at least one half of an iced white mountain cake, left from Sunday, and packed that in with the other things.  Little did Roberta suspect who would eat that lunch, and think it the best lunch ever eaten.

It was good; Aunt Judy knew all about fixing lunches.  She was a great “Camp-meeting” woman.

Roberta took up the basket and flew out to the wood-pile, where Uncle Squire was cutting wood.  He saw her coming, and called out: 

“Look out, honey! chips iz mity keerless things, you never know when they gwiner fly at you, like some fo’ks I knows.”

“Old man,” called Judy from the kitchen, “that ash-hopper is plum dry.  Don’ forgit ter put some water in it fo’ you goze.”

“Dat ash-hopper allers iz dry.  It’s like me since Mars Charlie’s bin gorn.  Judy,” he called out again, with a mighty bravado of voice, “I am got no time ter be fillin’ dat ash-hopper fo’ I goze, you knows dat.”

“I can wait, Uncle Squire,” said the child, always willing to make peace at any cost to her own convenience.

“‘Twon’ take no mo’ dan er minit to fill it up, honey, I got de water ready.  I jes’ wanter show her I wuzen’ gwiner be bullied inter it.”

The children thought it was prime fun to be jostled along in the wagon with the pumpkins and potatoes.  Inconveniences in youth are diversions only.  One seeks them.

If the children who read this story have never seen our glorious Kentucky woods in October, they can have but faint idea of its beauty.  It is just like some vast cathedral—­aisle upon aisle opening before one, columned and gorgeous beyond description, in infinite variety of tint, shaded from blood-red to pink, from orange to tawny yellow, from golden russet-brown to more delicate wood-colors.

Under foot is a tesselated floor, mosaiced with the same gorgeous colors.  From every quarter is wafted herby odors.  Here and there one comes to trees whose leaves are all a vivid glowing crimson.  You can’t imagine any thing more beautiful when the light shines through them.  Through openings in the columned aisles one sees fields steeped in golden glamour, where float feathery tufts of down.  There also linger a few late golden-rods, and butterflies with limbs chilled by the crisp air.